“Good.”
After Brennan updated him, both men went to the captain’s office and briefed him. After listening, Kennedy cupped one hand over his mouth and thought for a moment.
“All right. We can’t lose time on this,” Kennedy said. “Ed, you and Dickson get on the next plane to Minnesota and start working with BCA. I’ll alert the Chief, the county, state and the FBI. We’ll expand the task force. None of this leaks out! We can’t let the suspect know we’re this close.”
After Brennan had collected his files onto a secure, encrypted USB key he went home to pack.
It was a huge break, but it came with a huge price.
Another unidentified victim.
Who is she? And will her death help us stop this monster?
CHAPTER 51
Chicago
A lake-driven wind pressed dead leaves against the black granite headstone in New Jenny Park Cemetery.
Kate brushed them away and read the engraving:
Krasimira Anna Zurrn
Born June 29, 1945. Died October 12, 1998.
Beloved Mother of Sorin.
Tragedy upon tragedy, she thought. A drug-addicted prostitute takes her life because she believed her son had killed a schoolmate. That son is regarded by all who remember him as weird and creepy, a fact hammered home by what Kate saw in the crawl space of their basement last night.
“He built a wooden box in there, looked like a coffin,” Ritchie Lipinski, the landlord, had said. “I pulled it out, took it to the landfill. I don’t know what the hell that freak was into.”
Ritchie hadn’t given Kate any problems. In fact, he’d let her take photographs and had promised to find ones he’d taken of the box.
In her hotel room later, she was tormented by images of the crawl space, Sorin Zurrn’s history and her growing belief that it was all tied to Rampart.
And Vanessa.
Kate was getting closer to the truth about Carl Nelson. She could feel it in her gut, but she needed more than a feeling.
Earlier that morning, her phone had rung with a call from an administrator with the Glorious Martyrs and Saints Church who’d agreed to meet her. Since the cemetery was on the way, Kate stopped to see Krasimira Zurrn’s grave site and take photos.
She checked her phone. It was time to go.
The church wasn’t far. Its twin tower facade soared over the neighborhood. It was more than a century old, built in the Romanesque style with beautiful stained glass windows. After parking, Kate went by the ornate wooden doors, taking the sidewalk leading to the office in the rear, as instructed, and pushed the button for the bell.
A short woman came to the door. She had Cleopatra bangs and large black-framed glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
“Kate Page, here to see Joan DiPaulo.”
“Yes, I’m Joan. Come in.”
The smaller woman took Kate down a hallway smelling of candle wax, linen and incense. They came to an austere office. A crucifix on the plain white wall looked down on the desk, computer, phone and file cabinet. The woman indicated a wooden chair for Kate.
“Now, my apologies for not getting back to you,” Joan said. “We don’t have regular hours at this office.”
“That’s fine, I understand.”
“In your call you said you’re doing some genealogical work?”
“I’m looking into the history of a family.”
“Your family?”
“No.”
“Oh, are you with an estate lawyer? Do you have a letter?”
“No.” Kate put her Newslead identification on the table.
The woman slid on her glasses and studied it.
“A reporter?” The warmth in her voice evaporated. “You shouldn’t have misrepresented yourself to me on the phone.”
“I didn’t. I said I wanted to research a family history. And here I’ve identified myself to you.”
“I’m sorry.” She handed the ID back to Kate. “I can’t help you. Church policy forbids me from disclosing the private information of parishioners.”
“I understand, but please let me explain the background.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Page. I’m unable to help you.”
Kate didn’t move.
Something had triggered a sense of injustice—an eruption of internal anger at how the church bureaucracy that had gone out of its way to protect criminal priests was now stopping her cold in trying to find a murderer and the truth about her sister.
“I’m a Catholic, Joan.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe I’m not a good Catholic, but our parents had us baptized.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with this. Now, as I’ve said—”
“Please, let me put all my cards on the table and tell you why I need your help.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have the time.”
“This is extremely important. It’s information you should know.”
Joan sighed.
“Please, ma’am.”
“Be brief.”
Kate began with her own tragedy, her lifelong search for the truth about Vanessa, then fast-forwarding to the discovery of her necklace at Rampart, the horrors there, the message and links to the Alberta abduction, the Denver suspect, which brought her to Chicago and her work on the Zurrns. Kate unfolded a photocopy of Krasimira Zurrn’s obituary from the newspaper. “I need any information you could help me with on this family.”
Joan read the clipping, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.”
Kate struggled to keep control.
“Does your computer have access to the internet?”
“Yes, but I see no reason to continue this.”
“Please, one more thing. Then I’ll leave. Go to this website.” Kate jotted an address on her notebook and turned it to her.
“Please. Go to this site. It’s important and it won’t take long. Please.”
Joan went to the site. Soon her breathing quickened as she clicked on stories about the Rampart case. The faces of the victims who’d been identified stared back at her.
“I’d like you to remember those faces,” Kate said, “because in not helping me you’re helping the man who murdered these women. So later tonight when you lay your head on your pillow, just consider who we really protect and who we hurt when we serve bureaucracy without question. I’m sure a new face will emerge soon and when it does, I’ll send you her picture. We know the killer will be especially grateful to the church, which could have done
